


I've done my sentence (but committed no crime)

by SherlockedWitch



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Freddie thinks he has to put up with violence in order to be loved basically, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Roger Taylor is a Good Friend, Self-Esteem Issues, sort of a hopeful ending?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-06 20:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19070116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockedWitch/pseuds/SherlockedWitch
Summary: Upon closer inspection, he realizes Freddie’s face isn’t just red from crying. The left side of his face is far more red than the right, and there are hints of purplish bruising forming on his cheek and up near his eye. Roger’s eyes widen.This is such a far cry from ‘nothing.’





	I've done my sentence (but committed no crime)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't included any graphic depictions of violence so no worries there, but domestic violence is the main theme of this fic, so just be mindful of that.

It’s rather late when Roger hears Freddie come through the front door. He’s still awake, though, and he’s in the kitchen making himself a sandwich. The sound of Freddie locking the deadbolt echos through their all but silent flat, followed by soft footsteps down the hall. Curiously, however, the footsteps soon stop despite having barely started.

This piques Roger’s interest, and he glances towards the doorway. Freddie hadn’t walked past yet; he would have seen him. Freddie’s bedroom is farther on down the hall, so he couldn’t have gotten there without walking by. Odd. Oh, well. He’d probably just gone into the living room and Roger had mistaken it for him walking down the hall. 

Roger means to let it go, and turns back to what he was doing. Mere seconds later, the silence is once again broken, this time by a strange noise. It’s faint, and he can’t quite make out what it is. It  _ definitely  _ came from the hallway, though, not the living room. Confused, he goes to investigate. As he nears the hall, he hears the noise again. It sounds like...sniffling?

Roger steps out into the hall, looking to his right. He’s almost startled when he sees Freddie just a couple feet away, leaning up against the wall. What on earth is he doing? That’s exactly what he plans to ask him, too, but then Freddie glances at him before quickly looking the other way, and it’s just long enough of a glimpse for Roger to make the connection between the strange sniffling sound and how wet Freddie’s face is. Oh. Visibly surprised, a different question comes out of his mouth.

“Are you crying?”

“What an exquisite observation, Roger.” Freddie answers him without looking up. He wipes at his face with his sleeve, breathing uneven. 

Roger chooses not to be phased by Freddie’s bitterly sarcastic tone. He can tell it’s just a front, anyway. Malice from Freddie is rarely genuine. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” Freddie mutters, fidgeting with his hands and staring down at the floor. 

Roger takes a step forward, eyebrows knitted together with concern. “This doesn’t look like nothing,” he points out, his voice a bit more gentle now. Freddie upset over ‘nothing’ sure as hell doesn’t look like this. He knows quite well what that looks like—it’s shouting, whining, lots of grumbling and excessive sighing—but it never,  _ ever _ involves tears.

Freddie finally properly looks up at him now, and Roger feels a pang of sympathy. He’s clearly been crying for a while—his face is blotchy, his eyes are red, tears are still rolling down his cheeks, and he’s biting his lip as if he’s holding himself back from outright sobbing. That’s the first thing Roger notices. The second thing, however, makes his blood run cold. 

Upon closer inspection, he realizes Freddie’s face isn’t just red from crying. The left side of his face is far more red than the right, and there are hints of purplish bruising forming on his cheek and up near his eye. Roger’s eyes widen. 

_ This is such a far cry from ‘nothing.’ _

“Freddie,” he starts, hesitating as he contemplates how to address this. One wrong move, and Freddie could very easily clam up entirely, or just continue to lie to him at the very least. He goes with a more open ended approach. “What happened?” 

Freddie feels conflicted. The pure concern in Roger’s eyes is already wracking him with guilt. He doesn’t want to be a bother, doesn’t want to make a big deal out of this. These...experiences, per say, have always been something he’s kept behind lock and key. For as much a drama queen people label him as, Freddie is eerily silent about the ‘drama’ that matters most.

(But he’s also painfully exhausted of lying.)

Tense silence stretches on, and Roger can practically see the way Freddie is desperately trying to decide what to tell him. When all he does is continue to cry instead of speak, Roger suspends his questioning for a minute. 

“Let’s get some ice for that,” Roger finally murmurs, gesturing to Freddie’s face. Now that he’s noticed it, the bruising and swelling seem to be getting worse by the second.

He starts walking towards the kitchen, getting a few feet down the hall before glancing back to make sure Freddie is following him. He is, albeit slowly. 

Roger enters the kitchen, spotting the sandwich he’d been making still sitting on the counter, already long forgotten. Ignoring it, he pulls open a drawer, grabbing a dish towel before heading for the fridge. He wraps some ice up in the small towel before going to give it to Freddie, who’s leaning against the counter. The lighting is better here in the kitchen than it had been in the hall, and it accentuates the bruising, the anxiety, the sadness, all simultaneously present on Freddie’s tear-stained face. 

“Thanks,” Freddie mumbles, taking the bundle of ice Roger held out to him. He winces only slightly as he gingerly presses it to his face. He hasn’t seen the damage yet, but he doesn’t need to. By feeling alone he can already tell the bruises forming are going to require multiple layers of makeup to conceal. He’s (unfortunately) had enough practice to know. 

Freddie is trembling, and Roger feels nauseated at the thought that it might be from residual fear. Or maybe he’s just nervous at being confronted. Or, more likely: it’s both. 

Roger takes a half-step back so he’s not completely crowding Freddie, but he stays relatively close. He waits a couple of moments for him to speak again, but he’s not surprised when it doesn’t happen. Which means he’s gonna have to pry. Well, he doesn’t  _ have  _ to...but, then again, he does. Letting it go when Freddie doesn’t want to talk about his family, or when he pretends to be absolutely unphased by a slew of derogatory terms thrown at him on the street, is one thing. Turning a blind eye when Freddie comes home injured and quite possibly more distressed and upset than Roger has ever seen him, though? Well, that’s an entirely different thing, and it’s not something he could live with himself for doing. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Roger asks first, because the thought has just occurred to him, and also because he figures he should start with a question that should have a relatively easy answer. 

Freddie shakes his head in response, something which his current headache is not too pleased about. His eyes flick up to meet Roger’s again briefly, and while they’re still filled with tears, less seem to be actually falling now. He’s got the thinnest grip on a hint of composure, although he’s uncertain it’ll last. 

Resisting the urge to ask  _ are you sure,  _ because he has to trust Freddie, he has to, and giving him the impression that he doesn’t would be a giant step in the wrong direction, Roger nods. “Okay, that’s good.” Now for the harder questions. 

“Did...“ oh, hell, he’s always been bad at names. In his defense, Freddie’s fairly private about his relationships, and Roger’s only briefly met his current boyfriend all of twice. “...Daron do this?”

Freddie is confused momentarily before realizing who Roger means. “His name is Derek,” he sighs.

_ Derek. _ He knew it started with a D, at least.

“Derek, yeah, whatever—did he hurt you?” Roger implores, though he tries to keep the bubbling anger inside of him out of his voice. God knows Freddie would probably misinterpret it, thinking it was directed at  _ him  _ instead of the person who hurt him. He needs Freddie to say it, even if he’s already quite certain of the answer. 

“It—it’s really not what you think, darling,” Freddie starts, voice wavering and effectively cancelling out the false confidence he’s trying to convey, “he...didn’t mean to. It’s not a big deal.” 

It sounds pathetic, and they both know it. 

“He just got mad, that’s all,” Freddie tries to explain, sniffling, “and I should have known better than to keep arguing—“

“No,” Roger firmly cuts him off before he can make anymore excuses for that bastard, because he is not about to let Freddie blame himself for this.  _ Christ.  _

Freddie looks at him again, his lower lip caught between his teeth. 

“It doesn’t matter what you did, or what you said, or that you were arguing—he  _ hit  _ you,” Roger says. Immense sadness washes over him when there is no immediate recognition or understanding on Freddie’s features. No acceptance that the abuse he’s suffered is wrong. He doesn’t get it.  _ Bloody fucking hell, he doesn’t get it.  _

How many people have hurt Freddie? How many times has this happened for Freddie to be seemingly numb to the idea that there’s no excuse for how he’s been treated?

Freddie swallows, looking away and shifting the position of the ice on his face. He doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to have this conversation. Roger is kind, and clearly concerned, and on a surface level he understands why. He knows this  _ looks  _ bad. What Roger doesn’t understand, though, is that this is just the way it is for Freddie. Sometimes people hurt him and he generally deserves it, and that’s just the way it is. He’s fairly used to it, having long grown out of being shocked when hands get raised. 

He doesn’t cry, not usually, not anymore. He suspects the only reason he’d started sobbing after tonight’s incident was because he’d been stupid enough to hope that Derek having not hit him for quite some time meant that maybe, just maybe, Freddie was behaving well enough for Derek to no longer feel the need to hurt him. Stupid. So, so stupid.

Roger frowns. Freddie isn’t meeting his eyes anymore, but he can see the way tears are making their way steadily down his face again, can hear how his breath hitches. “Freddie...please, tell me you understand that Derek hitting you is wrong.” 

“You don’t know the whole story.”

“Are you listening to me at all? The rest of the story doesn’t  _ matter.”  _ Roger takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His frustration isn’t going to help anything.

Freddie shakes his head again, almost imperceptibly, and he doesn’t even quite realize he’s doing it. He’s staring down at the linoleum, which is only a blur through his tears. 

To explain it all would be impossible; the unmistakable abandonment issues, the yearning for something, anything resembling affection—the shame that comes with having never known the warmth of feeling like you’re enough, like you’re not just a bundle of neediness and sensitivity that’s too much to handle, yet altogether too little of a person simultaneously.

He can’t expect Roger to understand what Freddie himself cannot fully dissect.

“What if it were me?” Roger asks, and he knows this might not be the best course of reasoning for him to take, but it’s the one that comes to mind. “If someone were hurting me, how would you feel about it?”

“That’s not fair, it—it’s not the same,” Freddie responds quietly, “You wouldn’t...wouldn’t…”

Roger stares at Freddie incredulously. “Wouldn’t what?”

“Wouldn’t deserve it,” Freddie finishes in a whisper, but the words ring loud and clear all the same. 

Roger is floored, to put it lightly. Those were not the words he’d been expecting, and they cut like a fucking knife. They’ve apparently cut Freddie himself pretty deeply, too, because before Roger can even begin to figure out what to say to something like  _ that,  _ Freddie’s thin thread of composure snaps in two and his face crumbles, his body overcome with wracking sobs that he instantly tries to muffle behind a shaking hand. 

He watches as Freddie sets his makeshift ice pack on the counter, as if the effort of holding it up to his face has become entirely too much. Roger can no longer just stand there, and he steps closer to Freddie, moving his arms to reach out for him but making sure to do it slowly enough that he sees it coming. When he doesn’t flinch away at the first touch, Roger fully encircles him in a hug. He’s tense, and shaking with every sob, but after a moment he seems to allow himself to accept the comfort, and he leans his head into Roger’s shoulder, one hand still covering his face. 

Roger holds onto him tightly, rubbing a hand up and down his back. He’s holding back his own tears as Freddie cries. “It’s okay...it’s okay, I’ve got you,” his voice is soft, comforting, conveying more composure than he probably really has. 

Freddie’s efforts to stop crying, so far, have gone entirely in vain. This breakdown is an indescribable combination of at least a dozen pent up emotions, and it’s as if his body can no longer handle any of them. “I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry,” he nearly whimpers the apology, and whether it’s for the tears no doubt soaking Roger’s shirt, or for having let his friend see even briefly into the damage he’s composed of, he’s not sure. 

“Shh,” Roger murmurs, because it feels like the right thing to say, although Freddie lapsing back into suffered silence isn’t actually what he wants in the slightest. “It’s not your fault, okay? None of it, any...anything that’s happened to you. It isn’t your fault.”

Freddie wants to protest, but can’t find the effort to do so. He just sobs. 

“You don’t deserve this,” and Roger speaks this quietly, but firmly, “it’s not okay for anyone to hurt you like this, and I don’t care if you don’t believe me, because it’s not a matter of opinion. It’s just—just a fact. I  _ promise  _ you that you deserve better.” 

He’s not an idiot—he knows a few words aren’t an immediate fix. He’d like to believe they’re a step in the right direction, though, and he means every single one of them.

Freddie still doesn’t speak, but he’s listening. He’s not fully agreeing, because his mentality is something that would take far more than five minutes to undo, but he’s listening. 

Roger feels Freddie loosely wrap his free arm around him and lightly grip onto the back of his shirt. He takes that as a good sign, and continues. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, okay? I can’t imagine what you’re feeling, but, I need you to tell me just one thing, alright?” he pauses here, unsure of how his next words will be received. “Tell me you won’t see Derek anymore.” 

Freddie tenses ever so slightly at this, sniffling, his sobs less violent but Roger can feel his tears still soaking his shoulder. Which, in hindsight, is a tad bit disgusting, but that’s the last thing he’s worried about right now. 

Freddie takes a shuddering breath before trying to speak. “It...it’s not that simple,” his voice is still nearly at a whisper, scratchy and tearful. 

“Why not?” Roger counters.

“He _ loves  _ me,” Freddie sobs insistently, and Roger’s heart absolutely breaks because he knows the poor man in his arms really believes that. He truly believes that violence is what he has to endure in order to be ‘loved.’ 

“That’s not love, Fred.” Roger absolutely loathes the fact that he’s having to say this, and it makes him all the more angrier at every person who has ever contributed to giving Freddie such a misconstrued idea of the kind of ‘love’ he deserves. 

Freddie doesn’t respond, trying to take that in. He disagrees, but the more logical side of his brain does concede that the love he gets from Derek...is not the kind of love Freddie himself would ever dish out. He knows, in a way, that Roger is right about Derek. Perhaps his reluctance to leave him comes from the fear that there will never be a next time more than anything else. Never a next chance at love, even painful love. He takes what he can get, and to throw it away always feels like a giant risk. 

“Please—for me, if not for yourself—leave him,” Roger insists, still holding onto Freddie, who clings a bit tighter to him. “If you need me to tell him to fuck off for you, I will. I’ll do anything you need me to do, but you can’t let him keep treating you like this.” 

Silence, again. Roger, feeling helpless, is about to launch into another ramble of encouragement, but Freddie at last speaks once more. 

“Okay.” It’s just one word, but it takes a mountain of effort to say. Freddie lets go of Roger and starts to pull away from his grasp after he says it. 

Roger, somewhat reluctantly, lets go of Freddie as the other man pulls away. He looks at him in concern, his face somehow even more tear-stained than before. He’s an absolute mess, but his crying has at least died back down to just sniffling with occasional, silent tears leaking out. 

“Okay, what?” Roger prompts gently, if only because he needs to hear the clarification.

“Okay, I won’t see him anymore,” Freddie breathes quietly, and he just barely manages to hold back another round of sobbing. 

“Good. Good, that’s good,” Roger murmurs, and he can tell Freddie actually means it, for which he’s greatly relieved. He knows Freddie’s problems clearly go much, much deeper than just Derek, but he doesn’t have the means to fix everything, and he’s going to have to settle for at least removing the immediate threat from his life. He also vows to pay more attention to the next boyfriend Freddie gets. To pay more attention to this...complete disregard for his own well-being that Freddie is possessing. It terrifies Roger, and he can’t begin to fully understand it; and it absolutely pains him that he can’t make it all better.

“Here,” Roger says after a moment, picking up the ice and handing it back over to Freddie, who takes it. “Are you, um, hungry or anything?” Bit odd of a subject change, yeah, but he blames it on his sudden need to comfort Freddie in any way he can actually manage to do so. 

Freddie blinks, vaguely thrown off by the question, but he quickly recovers. “No, I...think I just want to go to sleep,” he responds, wincing minutely as he puts the ice back against his face. 

Roger nods. With all that crying, Freddie’s got to be exhausted. “Okay.” 

Freddie sniffles, embarrassment suddenly flooding through him as he really takes in the fact that he’s just  _ had an absolute breakdown on Roger’s shoulder.  _ God. 

“Erm—thank you, Roger,” Freddie says quietly, and if his face wasn’t already probably red from crying, he knows without a doubt he’d be bushing like mad. This really has been the most  _ pathetic  _ he’s ever been in front of someone else, he’s sure of it. His gratitude for Roger’s kindness is something he has to express, though, even if it burns a hole of shame inside of him. He really doesn’t understand how Roger has put up with him tonight.

“No problem,” Roger tries to smile, although he can only muster a relatively small one, and Freddie’s not quite looking at him to see it anyway. “Just...get some rest.” 

“Night,” is the last thing Freddie mumbles before exiting the kitchen rather quickly, suddenly desperate to escape this conversation, this day. He makes his way to his room, wiping away the tears that have fallen over the last couple of minutes. 

He’s absolutely drained. He only manages to kick off his shoes before crawling into bed, half-melted ice still cradled against his aching face. He takes steadying breaths, not wanting to cry anymore, just wanting to slip into unconsciousness. 

Freddie can just barely begin to comprehend why Roger is so certain that he ‘deserves better.’ However, he can’t deny that he is immeasurably grateful and humbled that anyone could know him and be so kind. Roger, Brian, John...they’re so often kinder than anyone else has ever been to him. Freddie cannot say he feels, in this moment, like he deserves it—nevertheless, as he eventually drifts off to sleep, he clings to the hope that they never, ever stop being the way they are, because it’s the one thing in his life that he truly never wants to lose.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never really written anything of this nature before, so forgive me if it was less than perfect.
> 
> (Also, as an aside: I have no idea if Freddie ever dated someone named Derek, I chose the name at random.)
> 
> Kudos/comments are always appreciated!


End file.
